


Not Just

by Maranwe Elanor (ladykiki)



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Filler, Gen, Movie scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykiki/pseuds/Maranwe%20Elanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys get out. Yakavetta house, scene filler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just

“Murph, get up.”

The words filtered warm and hazy past the press of Roc’s cooling body. Murphy pressed harder against flesh and blood-soaked cloth, seeking the life that had been there just moments before, that couldn’t be gone yet.

“They’re gonna be back soon. We gotta get out.”

Getting Roc out would help, certainly. Who could stay warm sprawled on the concrete floor. He wasn’t, couldn’t. 

“Dammit, Murph! Pull yourself together so we can go kill those motherfuckers.”

“Roc.” He pulled back, intending to pass on Connor’s dictum, and came up short, his hands pinned with cold steel. The gunshot echoed loudly in his ears, and he closed his eyes, seeing again the cold indifference on Yakavetta’s face as he pulled the trigger. Motherfucker. 

“Murph!”

“Aye, Conn.” He opened his eyes, locking gazes with his twin. I’m here. A switch clicked over in his head, turning burning fury into cold calculation. His match stared back at him. 

“About fuckin’ time.” Connor’s hands flexed against the cuffs binding him. “Can you get up? We need ta get outta here.”

“You said that already.” He was pretty sure, having gotten down, he could get back up, but it took him a minute to figure out the mechanics of it. Would’ve been a lot easier with his hands free, but standing the chair up, then slipping into it worked fine. “You got any bright ideas about gettin’ outta here, Charlie Bronson?”

Connor scoffed, but his eyes swept the basement for inspiration. “What, Rambo? Can’t break the fuckin’ chains?”

Murphy tested the chains instinctively, reacting to his twin’s voice, and wasn’t surprised to find they didn’t give. He could still remember the gashes cloven into Connor’s wrists after the fuckin’ Russians handcuffed him to the toilet. But this wasn’t then, and taking the chair with him wouldn’t do either of them much good. What they needed was a free hand or two. 

Straightening his fingers, he tried to pull his hand through the loop. The edge bit into the back of his hand and across his thumb and prying didn’t help. He grimaced at the sharp-edged bite. “Fuck.” The hell had Connor been thinking all those days ago.

“You’re in there pretty good, dear brother.”

“Put up more of a fight.” Connor’d barely struggled at all, he remembered. Once the guys had gotten him, he’d gone pretty quiet. And the guys they’d put on him had rushed over to help the two holding Murphy. Too quickly, as it turned out. He smirked. “You’re not.”

Connor lifted an eyebrow.

Murphy nodded at his leg. “They missed the cross brace on your right foot.”

While Connor tested his words with his foot, Murphy maneuvered around Rocco’s body and out in front of Connor.

“The fuck do you think you’re doin’?”

Murphy just looked at him. He knew the moment Connor read the plan in his face ‘cause it straightened his spine and tightened his lips. But Connor didn’t protest. It was the only plan they had, and they both knew what would happen when Yakavetta’s goons came back. 

Connor nodded slowly. 

Murphy arrowed his hand, certain he wouldn’t be able to move it once Connor was finished with it, and pushed the cuff up his forearm with the other. The last thing they needed was Connor’s boot to smash the cuff and make it smaller. 

As an afterthought, he worked the collar of his turtleneck into his mouth. It wouldn’t do for him to scream and bring the goons back sooner than later. Fuck, this was gonna hurt. 

“Do it.” The less time he had to think about it, the better. Anticipation was already tying his stomach in knots. It was just as well he wouldn’t be able to see the blow coming. He didn’t think he could keep from flinching if he did. 

The fuck was taking Connor so fucking long, anyway? He twisted, glared. If they didn’t get outta here, they’d never get the chance to reap motherfucking justice on Yakavetta. No way in hell was that bastard walking free, even if it meant breaking every bone in Murphy’s body. “Do it!”

He shoved the cuff further up his arm and made sure the metal brace at his back served as a backstop. Then Connor’s boot smashed into flesh and he felt the bones crunch before white hot pain flared from fingertip to elbow. The second ground raw edges together and white flashed brilliant before his eyes. 

His breath came hard and fast and oddly wet, and it wasn’t until he felt moisture slide down his cheek that he realized he was sobbing. He slipped the cuff back down his arm. It slid over his mangled hand easier than he expected, though no less painfully, and he used his newfound freedom to swipe the worst of the tears from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Ya alright, Murphy?”

“Fine.” He wasn’t, wouldn’t be until Yakavetta paid for what he’d done to Roc, but his hands were free and they were getting out, and that was close enough.

“Bring your chair over here. Lay it on its side.”

He obeyed without thinking, just as glad to let Connor have his job back. He watched Connor’s leg piston against the chair leg in a daze, automatically moving to brace it, ignoring the pain that flared in his leg with every strike, his head fuzzy, his thoughts slow. 

He wished they hadn’t let Rocco join them, wished they hadn’t been caught, wished Yakavetta wasn’t such a bastard, wished Smecker hadn’t had his epiphany, wished that epiphany hadn’t let Connor feel safe enough to do one more job, wished they’d ended up anywhere but here. 

Wished God’s plan had taken them somewhere else, some-when else. But since it hadn’t, he just wished it made more sense, wished it didn’t hurt so damned bad. 

Suddenly, Connor’s boot hit the ground and the broken chair leg skittered across the concrete. He reached for it instinctively and hissed as the motion jarred his hand. The pain helped clear his head. 

Connor’s eyes cut quickly to the wall. His new stake clenched in his good hand, Murphy pressed against it, leaving the chair in plain view. Bare seconds later, there were footsteps on the stairs, then the door was opening. In walked the guy that had held Rocco’s hand so Yakavetta could shoot his finger off. 

No reason to hold back, then, so he didn’t. And neither did Connor. 

The chair leg went in easy, and his weight bore the bastard to the floor. Connor kicked him, hard, and Murphy followed suit. His head lolled limply. Dead, or good as. Murphy dug through the goon’s pockets, found two guns (neither theirs) and, miracle of miracles, a key. It fitted nicely in the lock on the handcuffs. 

Connor took the key from him the moment he had a hand, removing all of the cuffs completely and pocketing a few of them. Murphy picked up one gun, holstered it, then the other and held it out for Connor. His twin took it without looking, too busy staring at Roc. 

Murphy didn’t want to look at Roc. It hurt too much, knowing his friend would still be alive if he hadn’t wanted to bring him in. He rubbed at his chest and caught Connor’s eye. He nodded. They had to send Roc off right, first, or nothing else would be. 

Connor circled around to Roc’s head and got a grip on the chair. Murphy kept the legs from sliding while his twin lifted, then scooted to the left to give Connor room, took the penny his brother offered. It was awkward, placing the penny, since he couldn’t use his left hand for balance, but he managed. 

He couldn’t help but touch Roc’s face, to assure himself that his friend was there, that he was gone, that he’d said good-bye. Then he drew the goon’s gun from his holster, because their father’s prayer only really sounded right with a gun in his hand, because they had men to kill after this was done, because they were sealing the promise not to stop.

Kneeling hurt, but not as much as the words of their father’s prayer. Not as much as those words suddenly coming from the mouth of a man who’d tried to kill them, who with the touch of a hand became man, too, not just monster. 

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

**Author's Note:**

> Repost. Altered very slightly from the version posted on ff.net due to editing. The biggest difference is the title. Oops.


End file.
